


Soft Focus

by jessalae



Category: Psych
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Drunk Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then Gus is out of vodka, and can just focus on playing, or maybe on the deftness of Shawn’s fingers as he lays down his cards. NOTE: Characters are drunk when they consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Focus

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Characters are drunk when they consent. Written for the "drugs/aphrodisiacs" square on my card for round four of kink bingo; originally posted on my Dreamwidth September 29, 2011.

Gus smoothes his hands over the front of his slacks for the tenth time in the last minute, fidgeting in his seat. The three shots of mango vodka in front of him glimmer ominously in the lamplight. _Your high school health teacher would be so ashamed, Gus,_ they seem to say.

 _I’m pretty sure Mr. McCrae hadn’t had sex, like, ever,_ he shoots back mentally. _I wouldn’t expect him to understand._

“Hey,” Shawn says, sitting down across the table and setting out a row of four ice-cold beers. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Gus says, shaking his head. “Just spacing out, is all.”

Shawn eyes him with concern. “If you’re getting nervous about this, then we don’t have to do it, you know.”

“I’m good.”

“I mean, I’m fine with any kind of sex, drunk or sober.” Shawn grins at him lasciviously. His feet bump Gus’s under the table, curl up around Gus’s calves.

“I mean it,” Gus says. “I’m good. Just dying of anticipation a bit, you know,” he says, returning Shawn’s grin. Because yeah, the sex is good sober, and normally that’s the only way Gus would have it. But with Shawn…

With Shawn, there was inevitably going to be that one night where they watched _Die Hard_ and shared a bottle of whiskey, doing a shot every time something blew up or someone got called a motherfucker. And then four shots in, Shawn had started doing increasingly bad impressions of Alan Rickman’s German accent, which initially made Gus giggle but got old really fast, and so when Shawn didn’t respond to repeated elbows and death glares Gus had no choice but to kiss him to shut him up, and Shawn kissed back, and Gus barely managed to hit pause before Shawn knocked the remote out of his hands by pulling Gus’s t-shirt off…

And the sex that night had been _amazing_. Not good, or great, or satisfying, which it was all the other nights, but knock-down drag-out write-a-letter-to-Penthouse amazing. Something about the sharp taste of alcohol on Shawn’s tongue, the surprising fluidity of Gus’s movements, the way everything else had seemed to blur around them until there was nothing in the world but the two of them and occasionally the carpet below. Gus couldn’t choose a best part then, still can’t, and even though they woke up sticky and slightly hung over the next morning all he could think about was how much he wanted to do it again.

It took him almost two months to broach the subject with Shawn, but his partner/best friend/boyfriend knows a good idea when he hears it, and so a week after that initial slightly awkward conversation, here they are. They’ve consulted Blood Alcohol Content calculators, read up on different kinds of hard liquor, and worked out some guidelines for consent, all with the end goal of getting just drunk enough to lose a few inhibitions and then have amazing sex. It’s simple in theory, and hopefully the practical execution will go just as smoothly as all of Gus’s daydreams have.

Shawn shuffles his worn deck of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles playing cards, the one Gus just _knows_ Shawn added an extra ace to somewhere along the line. He’d be able to prove it, too, if Shawn ever let him deal. Tonight, though, his hands are a bit too tense to pull off his patented pivot-cut-bridge combo, so just sits and he watches the cards fly through Shawn’s fingers.

“So, the name of the game is Speed,” Shawn says. “Lose a hand, take a drink. We stop when the game is over or when we’ve both drunk our limits.”

“Or when we start dropping cards all over the place and can’t play properly anymore,” Gus says.

“Also a possibility,” Shawn concedes. “But this early in the evening, let’s be optimistic, shall we?” 

He finishes dealing, but before Gus can pick up his half of the deck, Shawn reaches out and grabs his hand.

“Last check before we start,” he says. “You still want to do this?”

“Definitely,” Gus says. “You?”

“Oh, yes.”

They set up — five cards here, one there, five in your hand, deck on the table — flip their face-down cards, and the game is on. Gus is doing pretty well until Shawn lays down three-four-five-four in quick succession, leaving Gus with a hand full of sixes and twos. Shawn wins the hand, and Gus tosses back a shot, blinking as the sharpness of the alcohol cuts through the sweet flavoring.

“I think I’ve discovered a flaw in our logic,” he says. “Not a lethal one,” he clarifies at Shawn’s concerned frown. “But isn’t the person who drinks first going to lose more subsequent hands due to lack of coordination?”

“If you’d like to blame my imminent kicking of your ass on the alcohol, go for it,” Shawn says. “But you’re still using words like ‘subsequent,’ so I think you’ll be fine.”

Sure enough, Gus wins the next hand, and the one after that. Shawn makes a comeback around hand number four, making their decks roughly even again. Gus has loosened up considerably, but he still isn’t going to be doing any fancy shuffling tricks at this point, because picking up twenty-something cards from the floor isn’t part of the plan.

Shawn winning the next hand isn’t part of the plan either, but then Gus is out of vodka, and can just focus on playing, or maybe on the way Shawn’s forehead creases with concentration as he considers his cards, on the deftness of his fingers as he lays them down, on the smug, ear-to-ear grin he gets when he wins a hand.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” Shawn accuses, chugging another beer.

“You’re going to drink either way,” Gus says. “What’s the point?”

“Gus!” Shawn says, indignant. “Way to undersell the inherent dramatic tension of this situation. Can’t you just enjoy the game for the game’s sake?”

“To be honest, the game’s not what I’d like to be enjoying right now.” Gus grabs Shawn’s hand, runs his thumb across Shawn’s wrist. Shawn’s pulse jumps noticeably, and he polishes off the last of his beer with a flourish.

“Fine by me,” he says, standing. Gus is out of his seat the second Shawn’s empty bottle hits the table, and he meets Shawn more than halfway, wrapping his arms around Shawn’s waist and kissing him, messy, open-mouthed. Shawn returns the kiss with enthusiasm, his hands cradling the back of Gus’s head. Shawn’s mouth tastes like beer, his hair smells like overpriced gel, his stubble scratches over Gus’s cheek, and Gus will never, ever get enough of this, never forgive himself for going without it for far too many years of plain old no-benefits friendship. He makes himself stop for just a minute, though, so he can steer them carefully around the table and down the hall towards his bedroom. Halfway there, Shawn grabs Gus’s ass, and Gus has to stop for a moment to push Shawn up against the wall and kiss Shawn until he’s moaning and pressing his erection into Gus’s thigh.

They eventually make it to the bedroom, and Gus shoves Shawn back towards the bed, giving himself some space to shed his t-shirt and get to work on his jeans. Shawn grabs his wrist, though, and pulls him in close, kissing his neck, sucking at that spot right above his collar bone that makes Gus gasp. Gus tips them onto the bed, rolling until he’s got Shawn mostly pinned. 

“You still good?” he asks, leaning away as Shawn tries to bite his earlobe.

“Fuck yeah,” Shawn says. “You?”

“Yeah,” Gus says against the side of Shawn’s neck. He snakes his hands up under the hem of Shawn’s t-shirt, fingers easily finding Shawn’s nipples, teasing them into firmness. Shawn’s eyes glaze over and his breathing picks up, and he grinds his hips up against Gus. Gus doesn’t let up, rubbing, flicking, twisting just a bit, his jeans getting increasingly uncomfortable. Shawn whimpers, pants, bites his bottom lip until it’s red and swollen — it’s always fascinated Gus, how thoroughly he comes apart at the seams at just the slightest bit of attention to his nipples. Finally he gasps, “Please, Gus,” and Gus has mercy on him, sliding his hands down the tense plane of Shawn’s abs to palm at the front of Shawn’s jeans. He traces the outline of Shawn’s erection through the denim before reaches for the fly, teasing, anticipating. 

As soon as his jeans are unzipped, Shawn is kicking them off, shoving down his boxers, canting his hips up to push his dick into Gus’s waiting hand. Gus strokes him slowly, fingers wrapped firmly around his shaft. Gus’s other hand is going for his own fly, pushing his jeans and briefs out of the way. He shifts his weight until he can bring his erection level with Shawn’s, grab them both, stroke them together. Shawn gasps and grabs at Gus’s ass, at the small of his back, at his arm, desperate to touch as much skin as he possibly can.

Gus shifts his weight and reaches over Shawn, fumbling in his bedside table until he finds their bottle of lube. He tosses it on the bed and goes back for a condom, but Shawn grabs him around the waist and pulls him back down. Gus gets lost in Shawn’s lips and hands and the press of their erections and decides that, for now, this is all he needs in the world. He gets a knee between Shawn’s legs, putting a tiny bit more space between them, and when Shawn’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck he grabs it and guides it to his own cock. His fist is still wrapped around Shawn’s erection, and he kisses Shawn long and slow as they stroke each other. 

They’re out of sync, at first, their knuckles bumping together on every other stroke, but they slowly fall into a rhythm: down, kiss, up, breathe, faster and faster until they’re gasping for air, hands a blur, and Gus knows he can’t hold out much longer. His free hand fists in Shawn’s hair, hard, pulling his head back, so Gus can bite at that spot under his jaw. Gus lets his hand trails down over Shawn’s neck towards his nipples again, teasing and tweaking until Shawn says “Fuck, _Gus_ ” and comes all over Gus’s hand. Shawn recovers with commendable speed, then picks up the pace of his hand and leans over to suck at Gus’s earlobe, and Gus is coming too.

Gus flops over and lets Shawn curl around him, one leg flung across Gus’s shins. Finally Shawn says, “No buttsex?”

Gus stretches, and Shawn lifts his head to let Gus sneak his arm around Shawn’s shoulders. “I wasn’t sure I had it together enough to put a condom on right.” He strokes the curve of Shawn’s hip, smiling lazily. “And I was impatient.”

“Besides,” he adds. “I’ll still be pretty buzzed in half an hour. If you’re up for another round.”

“Have I ever not been up for another round?”

In response, Gus just kisses him, slowly, deeply, feeling the world blur around the edges until just the two of them are in focus.


End file.
